


Maybe take a sick day?

by spiderboyneedsahug



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Exhaustion, He needs a warm hug and to be told he is loved every day, I should probably sleep, Illnesses, Infection, It's making Tony gray prematurely, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker needs protecting, Peter doesn't sleep very gracefully at all, Peter has a habit of ignoring when he's sick or injured, Peter sleeps like a freakin' octopus and Tony thinks it's hilarious, Peter weighs like 2g which is both concerning to Tony and adorable, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Ready and prepared with a warm blanket and a glass of milk, Sick Peter Parker, Tony is just about ready to become Peter's constant armed (dad) guard, dad tony, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderboyneedsahug/pseuds/spiderboyneedsahug
Summary: Peter Parker. School kid. Teenager. Boy genius. Stark Intern. Spider-Man. Superhero. Son-figure.The main cause of stress in Tony Stark's life.Simply put, Peter's a smart kid who is too dumb to take care of himself. Enter Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, stressed pseudo-father, and a weekend trip to the New Avengers Compound.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Infinity War and I'm just... nah.
> 
> Have some warm feelings and some Dad Tony because I have an insatiable thirst for Irondad and Spiderson fics that is never fulfilled. 
> 
> And angst, obviously.

It had initially been Tony’s idea: have Peter stay around the compound for the weekend, give May some time to unwind. He only knows about May’s stress from the way Peter speaks about her, voice tight with concern and eyes shining with worry, so it had only been logical to take the kid out of her hair. Hell, Peter had literally been bouncing off the walls when Tony told him the plan, even more so when May wearily agreed, so an already good idea became a better one. 

 

Which is why he’s stuck in a car on the way back to the Avengers compound with four bags of luggage in the trunk and one hyperactive teenager. It’s just starting to get dark outside, but it’s still bright enough inside the car that he can see Peter keeping his smallest bag on his lap, arms wrapped tightly around it. The bag moves up and down every time Peter moves his foot.

 

Seriously.

The kid won’t stop jiggling his leg.

 

It’s annoying, to say the least. Peter keeps looking anxiously around the car, face a little pale but filled with nervous energy nonetheless.

 

“You okay there, kid?” Peter jumps visibly at the question, a shaky smile painting onto his face. He seems to flounder for a few seconds before he can manage a response.

“Y-yeah! I’m-” Peter clears his throat, “I’m fine, Mr. Stark.”

“You’re making me anxious, kid. Calm down.” Tony doesn’t mean for his voice to come out as snappish as it does, but Peter stills and sinks back into his seat. He doesn’t miss the slightly wounded expression on Peter’s face before it’s schooled away into a mask of indifference.

“S-Sorry, Mr. Stark.” Peter sniffles a little and Tony bolts upright, alarmed — _did he make the kid cry?_ He feels awful now. He shouldn’t have responded so angrily when the kid was just burning off excess energy-

 

A sharp, squeaky sneeze sounds from Peter’s general direction, followed by shifting fabric and thicker sniffling.

 

The snort leaves him before he can stop it. He’s expected a lot of things from life, but he did not expect to discover that Spider-Man sneezes like a goddamn kitten. Peter looks affronted now, staring accusingly at him before he sneezes again.

“What was _that_?” Tony manages to get out around his laughs. It may be dimly lit in the car (he learned from experience that having the light too bright will hurt Peter’s eyes), but he can still catch the sudden darkening of Peter’s cheeks in response. Peter rubs his nose roughly, scowling at the floor.

“Hay fever.” The kid’s voice is petulant and annoyed, so Tony stops throwing barbs.

“Can you even get hay fever?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?” The kid’s voice is starting to get a little hoarse, so Tony doesn’t respond and the car descends into silence.

 

They pull up at the Tower about fifteen minutes later. Tony nudges Peter’s shoulder to wake the kid up, and even then he has to whisper “We’re here,” to get the kid back to coherency. It’s a little concerning, how tired and unresponsive Peter seems, but he shrugs it off as post-patrol tiredness. Usually he takes the time to watch civilian footage of Peter’s patrols — the kid always gives them his all, every single time, no matter if he's exhausted himself. He doesn't blame the kid for falling asleep after something as exhausting as _that_. Tony gets out of the car and opens Peter’s door for him.

 

To his amusement, Peter had nodded off again, quiet snores coming from his slightly parted mouth. He reaches down and gently tugs at the small bag, watching as the kid blinks awake again blearily. It’s a slow, drawn out process, getting Peter out of the car with his luggage, but they get it done eventually. Peter seems to wake up pretty quick after that, his enhanced strength rising to the occasion as he drags his luggage along the entrance to the compound.

“Do you even need that much stuff? You’ve got your whole room in there.” Peter’s face flares up in another embarrassed flush as Tony speaks, nimble fingers awkwardly fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

“I-I don’t like leaving my stuff behind.” He only just catches the faint mumble as they walk through the compound's lobby, the kid keeping his head down as they walk through. Their footsteps echo around the hushed building; most people had retired elsewhere in the building by this time. They enter the lift towards the higher floors where they would be staying.

 

Tony feels a little bad about having forced that answer from Peter when the kid obviously felt embarrassed about it, so on a whim he blurts, “You could leave some of that here, y’know? Keep the room.”

Peter makes a noise that sounds like a mix of choking and humming and whirls around, incredulous. “W-What?”

“It’s not like I’ve got a shortage of rooms, kid. You can stay ‘round here whenever.” Tony coolly turns to face the wall while Peter gawks aimlessly. A few more seconds pass in relative silence, the soft whirring of the lift as it glides upwards the only noise occupying the small space.

“You mean it, Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is so small and uncertain, as if he fears Tony to be playing a trick on him.

 

He can’t let Peter think that.

 

“Definitely, kid. What kind of mentor would I be if I didn’t offer a place to crash?”

“I- I- I, uh, I don’t know, Mr. Stark. I’ve never… had a mentor before.” Peter runs a shaky hand through his hair as he speaks, staring blankly at the wall. The kid is exhausted, he remembers, so as soon as the lift doors open he points down the hall.

 

Tony notes the sudden widening of Peter’s eyes at the sheer size of the compound from an internal perspective. The hallways must be huge for someone who lives in an apartment like Peter; the long, stretching hallways and huge glass windows must be quite the change to what he’s used to. Tony’s guess is proven right when Peter’s mouth opens just a little, then closes again, partially extended finger curling back against his palm. The bags under Peter’s eyes are glaringly obvious to Tony — he’s seen plenty of sleepless eyes in the mirror, although they’re usually his own, but it still triggers some half-formed protective instinct to kick in full force. He’s walking forwards before he can register it, his palms at Peter’s shoulder blades and pushing forward gently so they slowly travel down the hall.

 

“Down there, right at the end of the hall. Your room’s second to last door on the right. If you need anything, have FRIDAY give me a shout!” Peter winces a little at the sudden loudness of Tony’s voice and starts trudging down the hall to the door Tony pointed at. Tony flinches every time the kid stumbles down the hall a little bit, clumsy feet and long yawns painting a full picture of complete exhaustion.

 

Peter’s luggage trails out behind him, eventually disappearing into the room Tony had given him. The door finally closes and Tony heads back to the lift.

“FRIDAY, keep me updated on the kid. Disturbances, attempts to go on patrols, anything. He needs to sleep, so if he does anything stupid you tell me. I’m heading to the labs to tinker.”

_‘Got it, boss. AC/DC in the labs?’_

“FRIDAY, you know me so well.”

_‘Song preference?’_

“Eh, surprise me.”

 

The lights flicker to life as Tony enters the labs, _Shoot to Thrill_ already playing over the speakers. He’s glad that he took the time to soundproof and distance the labs from the other; he may be the boss of the place but he doesn’t want to disturb the goings-on in the compound.

 

Tony quickly settles down at his desk, tinkering with small contraptions. Being honest, Tony doesn’t really know what most of the little inventions lying around are. A lot of them are on the fly, creative moments of inspiration that he passes out during, forgetting what they are when he wakes up. _Maybe I should make a log of these things..._

Tony sighs and spins on his chair, wincing as his leg smacks into the leg of the table, “Hey, FRIDAY?”

_‘Yes, boss?’_

“Do me a solid and bring down the Iron Spider suit? I wanna mess with the web shooters, maybe improve it.”

 _‘Already on it.’_ There is some whirring and a small section of the wall gives way, revealing the still-pristine suit of armour in its capsule.

 

He’s still proud of the (hopefully asleep) kid for turning down a better suit, even though it was offered for free. It takes a lot to turn down such an offer and Tony respects Peter all the more for it.

 

When the suit arrives in the workshop, Tony’s nimble fingers are already prying the web shooters from the armour’s wrists, rolling them over in his hands and inspecting them. They’re fine pieces of machinery, refined and sleek, and although Tony is the one to have improved the design, the original genius came from Peter.

“FRIDAY, run specs on the shooters.” A holographic image of the shooters springs to life in front of him. Eyes squinting, Tony enhances a section of the web shooters and separates it from the rest of the hologram. He rotates it slowly in his palms, observant gaze looking for any signs of inefficiency in the design.

“You think if I tinker with the ability of the shooters to compress the web fluid I can make the velocity and force the webs come out at optional?”

_‘It’s possible, boss. You’d need to add a selection interface into the suit so Peter can choose the velocity he can shoot the webs, but the mechanics aren’t too difficult.’_

“Yeah, well what’s a little more programming?”

_‘A bit more than ‘a little’. You’d need to implant multiple subroutines into the code to be activated at Peter’s word so the suit responds to the upgrades.’_

 

Tony clicks his tongue and stares at the web shooters.

“Screw it. Let’s do that.”

 

* * *

 

 

He’s not sure how much time has passed before FRIDAY speaks up again, but there are scrap metal pieces lying all across his work station, the soldering iron is still red-hot, and the web shooters’ insides are slightly exposed to his sight. Calming his jittery nerves, he puts the partially-reconstructed web shooters back on the table.

 _‘Boss, Peter is asking if you’re awake.’_ Tony frowns — the kid _definitely_ shouldn’t be awake. He was dead on his feet earlier on, he should be resting now.

"Yeah, I'm awake. Probably. Did he give a reason why he asked?" He can't hide his curiosity. Why would Peter be awake when he's so exhausted? Was Tony the first one he asked for?

 _'I'll put you on vid-call.'_ FRIDAY politely says, redirecting the call to one of Tony's many holographic screens. It takes a few seconds, but the screen flickers to life. Peter's room is dimly lit, the only source of light being one of the small lamps in a corner, but he can still see Peter's silhouette sat on the bed.

"Peter?"

"Oh- hey, Mr. Stark." The kid clears his throat none-too subtly, "W-what's up?"

"Turn on a light, wouldja? Can't see you." Tony's voice, against his wishes, sounds whiny and annoyed and he can hear Peter's amused huff, then him talking to FRIDAY. The lights come on abruptly and he can see the kid visibly flinch.

 

Tony nearly chokes on his saliva. The bags under Peter's eyes are a deep purple, maybe even a black, and he can't help the low whistle that escapes him. Kid looks like he got socked in the eye. _Hard_. By a _truck_.

"Damn, kid. You okay?"

"Uh- yeah. Um, can I hang out in- um-" Peter coughs, the noise a rattling and chesty sound. Tony winces. Peter could get sick now? "Somewhere else?"

"Why? What's wrong? Room not comfortable?"

"No, no no! Mr. Stark, the room is _great_ , I promise. But, uh, my Spidey-sense won't shut up. I- I can't sleep." Peter's eyes look suspiciously wet, his frustrations at being unable to sleep painfully obvious. He feels a moment of pity — he's been on the receiving end of non-super powered insomnia many times. 

"Run that by me again? You don't feel safe, do you?"

"No! I'm sorry... Sorry, the room is great and I love it, but- but, it keeps going off. My Spidey-sense keeps going off every t-time I get close to sleeping and I just  _can't_ , I just wanna- wanna go somewhere else and hopefully I'll pass out or something like that because I really just wanna sleep but I can't and-"

Tony interrupts before Peter can keep ranting, "It's okay, Peter. I've been there before, don't worry."

"Y-you have?"

"Well, not a super-powered type of insomnia like yours, but I get insomnia all the time." He can see Peter scrubbing at his face with his sleeves, puffy red eyes sparking with interest.

"That's gotta suck. Sorry, Mr. Stark."

"No need to be sorry, Pete. Tell you what, meet me up in the Avengers' common room in five minutes. FRIDAY will direct you there if you can't figure it out yourself, so don't worry. Bring your comforter."

"Mr. Stark?"

"We-" He puts the web shooters down on the table, standing up and dusting himself off, "Are Netflix marathon-ing. If you can't sleep, watch something you enjoy." He hears a child-like laugh through the video call and an  _uh-huh_ in agreement.

"I'll see you in five minutes, Mr. Stark." The call clicks off.

"You heard the kid, FRIDAY. Do me a favour and close up shop?"

_'Always, boss.'_

The lights slowly turn off as Tony approaches the lift, the holograms on the reinforced glass walls locking themselves before turning dull. The lift door closes and Tony moves upwards. He doesn't quite run to the common area, but he does establish a quick pace — Peter is faster than him naturally, and it would be unbecoming of Tony to not arrive to set things up before Peter does. 

He grabs as many blankets as he can from the cupboards in the main living area, tossing them over the sofa haphazardly before heading over to the kitchen and letting the kettle heat up water for a minute. He may not be a cook by nature, but he _can_  make a few home remedies for a nasty cough.  _God_ , that makes him sound like a dad. Shaking his head, he spoons honey, ginger and lemon juice into the water and lets it brew for a few minutes. The mug is steaming and ready less than thirty seconds later; he leaves it on the island for Peter to grab.

Speaking of the kid...

He hears Peter's approaching footsteps, slow and dragging. It's concerning given Peter's normal degree of stealthiness when walking. However, he's fully aware that something as severe as Peter's sleep deprivation is bound to make the boy more sluggish, more loud.

"In here, FRIDAY?" He sounds congested and tired, thick sniffles punctuating nearly every word. At least Tony knows that Peter definitely _can_ get sick now.

_'Yes, Peter. Mr. Stark is waiting to the left of the room, by the sofas.'_

"Oh, crap-" Peter sneezes loudly, hand flying up to mask his face, before he shuffles into the room with a tired, "Hey Mr. Stark."

"Hey, kid. You look like shit." A red flush comes to Peter's face, contrasting sharply to his pale cheeks.

"I guess."

"I made you something to drink- it's on the side. And may I introduce to you," Tony flourishes his hands at the blanket-ridden couch, "Your blanket fort. You're taking that sofa." The kid's bruised-looking eyes widen at the sight of the sofa before he turns back to Tony, expression questioning and confused.

"Mr. Stark, I don't need a whole-" He raises a hand, swiftly cutting Peter's tired rambling off.

"Yeah you do. You're sleeping there. No arguments. Here's your drink, now sit your ass down and rest." The kid's tired fingers wrap around the mug as he sits on the sofa, absently tugging blankets over himself. Tony sits heavily on his own couch, clicking on the holographic screen of the television. The quiet prevails for a few more minutes as the kid shuffles around under the dozens of layers swathing him, occasionally sipping from the drink Tony made him.  _At least he likes it._

 

Like this, Peter looks more like what he really is — a child. Young, tired, small. His brown hair is mussed and falls irregularly over his round, glassy eyes. The kid looks, frankly, adorable wrapped up under an abundance of layers, fingertips just sticking out of the sides where he clutches at them.

 

"What do you wanna watch? What do you like- Star Wars? The Walking Dead? Orange Is The New Black? Breaking Bad? I got them all and more, so take your time." He never has been able to deal with the quiet well. Or at least that's what Pepper tells him.

Peter's voice is quiet and scratchy, but just audible, "Can we watch The Walking Dead? I gotta catch up on it."

"Yeah- of course, kid." The theme to the show starts playing and the lights dim — that cinematic function was a great add-on to the compound — and Tony settles into the show. He's seen some of it before, back when Clint and Thor would settle down to binge-watch a few seasons, so he's not completely lost when he sees Negan brutally slaughtering two other people, but still finds the gratuitous violence off-putting. Peter seems entranced by the goings on in the show though, so he doesn't comment on it and instead keeps watching.

 

Maybe four episodes pass before he hears quiet snoring from the kid's direction. Tony mutes the television and looks over.

The kid is slumped over on his sofa, still drowning in blankets, and his mouth is just slightly open to make room for the snoring. He's a little pale still, Tony notes with a small frown, but his face is relaxed and youthful. He can leave the kid asleep until the morning, then he'll take him to the medical wing if he has to. A tiny part of him itches to take a picture of Peter's child-like state, the same part of him that sounds an awful lot like Pepper and takes pride in everything Peter does. 

Shaking his head, Tony turns off the TV and settles onto his own couch, tugging his blanket over him.

 

It doesn't take much for him to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

Tony wakes up to an errant sun ray in his eyes and curses. Of course he forgot to dim the glass before sleeping. With a stretch and an impressive yawn, Tony stands and drops his blanket back on the couch. He makes a face at the gross taste in his mouth, shuffling over to the kitchen and making himself coffee. Not healthy, he knows, but it's better than nothing.

He's sipping at his _slightly_ too hot coffee when he sees Peter and he nearly chokes from his laughter. The kid's flopped over on his stomach, rogue blankets strewn over the floor; hair an unkempt mess and mouth parted. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job of laughing quietly at the kid- that is, until he catches the small trail of drool on Peter's cheek. Tony's laughing becomes audible and he has FRIDAY snap a few pictures of him. He is  _never_ gonna let Peter live this one down, exhausted or not. 

Downing the rest of his coffee, he walks over to where the kid is ungracefully sprawled. 

"C'mon kid, time to wake up." The grin on Tony's face only grows when Peter waves a limp arm at him, obviously trying to shoo him away. The kid makes some incoherent noise and turns to face the back of the sofa.

" _Peter,_ " He sing-songs, "I got a nice picture of you sleeping like an octopus! Betcha May'll love it." A noise that sounds suspiciously like ' _go away'_ comes from Peter and Tony snorts loudly. The sass on this one.

"Oh, you're no fun when you're grumpy. Teenagers, I swear- Come on, up time. I'll make you coffee." He puts his hand on Peter's shoulder, gently shaking him.

 

He draws back, alarmed, at the unnatural heat he can feel radiating from the kid. 

 

_Okay, that's... bad._

 

"Kid, you gotta wake up. Peter?" Peter's unresponsive nature is no longer amusing but instead worrying. Tony hears Peter groan and feels him turn around to face him, eyes bleary but open.

"Hey, Mr. Stark." The same tiredness from last night is still in Peter's voice, accompanied by a painful sounding cough. 

"Hey, kid. Why didn't you tell me you were ill?" Tony tries not to let his hurt tone seep through, he has to be strong for his kid, but given the sudden and staggering appearance of guilt in Peter's eyes, it definitely did.

"I didn't want to worry you." Thick sniffles punctuate Peter's words; the kid's eyes are teary and obviously upset. There's a twisting sensation in his gut at his kid's pain, like glass is being pressed into him. Tony adopts a non-confrontational posture and holds his hands out in front of him.

"Hey, hey. It's okay, I'm not mad. Can you stand? I'm gonna get you to the medical wing, that okay?" Understanding his words is a challenge, but Tony can see the exact moment that Peter comprehends what's happening and nods slowly. Shaky hands pull off the blankets and Peter stands woozily, legs wobbling.

Tony's chest aches at Peter's shakiness, "You're okay?" Peter gently shakes his head, pallor fading a little.

"Mr. Stark, I don't feel so good." Peter's knees give out briefly and he stumbles, nearly tripping over entirely. Tony catches the kid's weight, stumbling backwards just a little bit from it. The fever-heat that is coming from Peter in waves is deeply unsettling. He knows Peter runs hot naturally, but this is pushing it just a little bit too far.

"Hey hey hey... Take it easy, alright? Don't push yourself too hard- Wait, is that _blood_?!" There's a small patch of crimson on Peter's shirt, mostly dried, but Tony still freaks out slightly. Maybe more than slightly. A lot. He freaks out a  _lot_. 

 

This was meant to be a nice, calm weekend. Nice,  _calm_ weekend.

 

"Peter, what's  _this_?!" Tony distantly recognises that he sounds hysterical, eyes wide and face pale as he stares at the offending spot. Peter doesn't seem to be too worried by the  _obvious wound_ in his side, yawning without a care in the world. He's still leaning against Tony for the most part.

"It's nothin', Mr. Stark. Don' worry."

" _Nothing?!_ Don't worry? I'm worrying. I'm worrying a  _lot_ because you're hurt!"

"It's fine! Promise, can I- I just wanna go back to sleep. Please."

"Peter, I can't let you sleep until I know you're okay. I'll ask you again — what happened out there?"

Peter sighs, reluctant, "There was a family. In an alley. And there- there were a few muggers, they had knives but I couldn't let 'em hurt those guys so I... I did my thing. Stayed local, stood up for the little guy. I do this all the time, it's fine. I'm healing, it'll be fine. I just need to go back to bed-"

"I'm sorry. You do this  _all the time_?!" He's never experienced a type of stress like this, hot and thick in his chest.  _Is this what having a kid is like? How do people do it?_

"No, not like that... I don't usually get hurt like this. I'm fine, Mr. Stark. I'm okay." Peter pushes off of Tony gently, standing upright unassisted as if it could deter Tony.

"Like hell you are," Tony scoops up Peter, ignoring both how light he is and his half-angry protests, "You're going to the medical wing." 

"Mr. Stark, I'm fi _ne_ \- ow, okay, _ow_ -" The kid hisses and curls in on himself in Tony's arms, prompting him to walk faster. He doesn't care if he gets confused looks as he determinedly strides through the halls, cradling the kid to his chest. He can hear clear as day Peter's thick sniffles, frowning every time the tall-tale rattle of a cough wracked the child's body. 

 

After every time he's had to carry and / or drag Peter away from a dangerous experience, the feather-light weight of him is still alarming. The size and weight of the kid didn't match up to his strength or speed at all, which isn't entirely a bad thing, but it's still weird to carry a fifteen year old superhero who weighed so little.  _Guess that means Spider-Man and Black Widow are light-weight badasses._ He snorts slightly at the thought. Maybe it's just a spider thing? Surely the kid's weight has to be linked to the fact that he can spend so long doing acrobatics that no other hero can replicate.

 

Tony keeps walking, awkwardly contorting his hand to be more comfortable on Peter. He turns into the hall that he knows carries the medical facilities. As soon as they enter an empty medical room, Peter wriggles from his grip and unsteadily lands on his feet. After guiding Peter to the bed and sitting him down (he doesn’t miss the immediate wince after Peter flops backwards), Tony rummages around for a first aid kit.

"Easy kid. FRIDAY, scan please?"

_'Scanning subject. Detecting a mild concussion, a non-lethal stab wound and an invasive foreign body.'_

"Excuse me? 'Invasive foreign body'?"

_'It's likely a form of the influenza virus in its incubation period, boss. Nothing too dangerous, just a cold.'_

Peter coughs harshly into his sleeve, wiping his nose roughly, "I thought I couldn't get sick."

_'Usually, you wouldn't have felt the effects. As soon as the virus started spreading around your body, it would have been killed. Given that your healing factor was distracted after your patrol, it's been allowed to spread around your body, hence why you're feeling it.'_

"Rough night then. Recommended course of action, FRIDAY?"

_'Disinfect and seal the open wound. The rest should take care of itself, given time and no strenuous activities.'_

"Hope you like needles, kid." Tony digs the needle and thread out of the kit, followed up by a numbing gel and disinfectant, "I've done this before, so you'll be fine." The room is silent — unnaturally so. He turns to look at Peter, heart plummeting into his chest at the terror in his eyes. The kid's hands, clenched into fists, are nearly white from the force they exert on the frame of the bed.

"Shit, Peter. It's okay, see? I'll put on the numbing cream- you won't feel a thing, I promise." 

 

Never has Tony ever thought he would adopt such a soothing, calming tone of voice in his life. But looking at Peter, looking at the fear in his eyes and how tense his posture is, it just feels natural. He keeps cooing reassurances and makes sure his hand is in contact with Peter in some way to offer some kind of comfort. The breaths that Peter draw in are shaky, stuttering, and it puts Tony's heart in an uncomfortable vice. He doesn't like seeing Peter, strong, excited, unflappable Peter so... _distressed_.

He keeps going with his noises as Peter jumps back from the numbing cream, yelping in shock, then later hissing through the stinging pain of the antiseptic. ‘ _You’re okay_ ’ and ‘ _you’re nearly done, kid’_ are among the litany of phrases he uses to keep Peter calm as he slowly works stitches into the wounded flesh. The injury is gnarled and bloody towards the centre, but an aggravated pink towards the edges where his healing factor was kicking in. Still makes his heart lurch in worry.

 

With a flourish, Tony snips the last stitch and covers it with gauze strips, nodding to himself. That should do the job. 

"It's done, kid. You wanna stay here, or do you want to go back to your room?" He watches, concerned, as Peter slips down his shirt to cover the packed wound, the same old blood patch still over the area.

"Room." The kid's voice is croaky, cracking slightly on the syllable, but his meaning is still conveyed well enough so Tony moves to pick him up again.

Peter takes a step back, "No, no. I- I can do it myself. I can walk."

Tony frowns, "You sure?"

"Y-yeah. 'Course."

 

Tony doesn't miss the overly cautious way that Peter gets back onto his feet, testing his weight as if he fears he'll collapse, but the unsure expression on the kid's face fades almost instantly as he takes his first few steps forward. His first few steps out of the medical room are shaky, unstable even, but gradually become smoother as he continues. Tony follows close behind the kid with a frown, ready to catch Peter if he falls, but remains otherwise silent while they walk.

He's already reaching out as soon as he sees Peter stumble, hissing a little as he pulls on his stitches.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah... Yeah, I'm good. Uh, thanks for the... save."

"No prob, kid. Try to take smaller steps, we don't got anywhere to be." Peter doesn't respond, but Tony can tell he listened from the shorter strides they walk at. The trip back to Peter's room is quiet, peaceful even, and it's obvious that the calm is a welcome change. 

"If you need anything, have FRIDAY call me. Seriously."

"Okay, Mr. Stark."

Tony closes his eyes and grins, shaking his head, "I don't suppose it's too much to ask of you to just call me Tony? Mr. Stark was my dad."

"Will do, Mr. Stark!"

 

He doesn't need to open his eyes to see the small smirk on the kid's face, the smug bastard.

 

* * *

 

 

He's back in his labs almost immediately after he drops Peter off. He'll clear up the common room later on. Besides, the inspiration to work on his tech is there for once, so he decides to go back to work. The web shooters are still on the table where they were yesterday, so with a gleam in his eyes he goes straight back to it. Tiny circuits and lengths of wires lie all over the table, within arm's reach.  

"FRIDAY, enhance...  _there_." He looks at the screen, then back to the web shooters, soldering iron at hand. The red-hot iron is just about to make contact with the insides of the web shooters when-

_'I'm detecting a disturbance in Peter's room, boss.'_

The soldering iron is back in its place immediately. "Disturbance?"

_'A nightmare. Subject's heart rate is elevated, appears to be in distress. Recommended course of action would be-'_

"Yeah, I'm on it."

 

He doesn't even bother to lock the lab up (everyone knows better than to go in there anyway).

 

He's at the door to the kid's room almost instantly, slightly winded from how fast he ran over. 

"FRIDAY, override lock. Authorisation code:  _arachnid 2-5-9._ Override personnel: Anthony Edward Stark."

_'Code overridden.'_

He presses the door open just a little, enough to cast a slit of light into the otherwise pitch-black room.  _Designed to keep noise and light out. Refuge for sensory overload_. A damn pain in the ass, in this situation. He thanks his lucky stars that the door doesn't creak as he opens it just a little more. The light falls over the corner of a mattress.

"FRIDAY, lights at 5%. Keep it dark." The room lights up, just a little. 

 

He can hear Peter crying, and he's unashamed to admit that it's a sensation similar to being punched in the gut. The noises leave him winded, shocked. Tony has heard a huge range of noises from Peter, ranging from Peter's childish whining to his amusing pubescent voice cracks. But never this. Never this. He's heard cries of surprise, cries of laughter and pain, but... these are cries of  _terror_ , pure, unadulterated fear.

His hesitation to enter the room is gone, replaced with heavy urgency.  _Christ_. 

 

Concern licks his stomach when he notices the comforter on the floor, obviously kicked off Peter's clothed — the blood patch is still there — body. He should check the stitches after he wakes Peter up.

"Hey, hey, hey... C'mon kid, up you get. Time to wake up, Peter." The only thing preventing him from making contact with the kid is his flailing limbs. Weakened or not, Tony knows that a hit from Peter in this state would hurt like a bitch. The crying doesn't stop, if anything worsening as time passes. Tony reaches out, hand touching down on Peter's arm.

The kid seizes up, stilling. Tony's about to ask again if he's awake when the mumblings start. It's mostly unintelligible, a mess of words and noises, but he can hear words like ' _hurts_ ' and ' _no_ ' among them so he yanks his hand back as if he's been scolded. 

 

A few more minutes pass, slow and agonising as Peter slowly comes back to himself, muttering growing quiet and limbs stilling.

"Mister Stark...?" Tony's eyes snap to meet the blown, hazy ones that are cracked open.

"Yeah, it's me. You here now?"

Peter nods before he hisses, curling in on himself a little, "It hurts."

 

 _The stitches._  Shit.

 

A quick check of the bloodstain shows that, while the stitches are intact (he needs to thank the genius who made durable threads for the more... _enhanced_ team members), the wound itself has reopened just enough to show a red-pink colour through the gauze, which definitely needs redressing. 

"There's a first aid kit in the bathroom. Be right back." The clinical white lights of the en-suite are blinding after being in such dim lighting, but it doesn't hinder him as he harshly pulls the kit from the cupboard under the sink. 

 

Tony frowns when he catches the exhausted expression on Peter's face. Kid hasn't had it easy so far. He tries to make the process of redressing the wound as fast as possible, cleaning the injury deftly and quickly replacing the gauze strips over the area. 

"You should lie down, kid. Try to sleep some more if you can."

 

Peter doesn't reply. Instead, he haltingly shifts back down into a resting position, eyes tired and nose red. Tony absently drapes the comforter over the kid before shuffling towards the door.

"You need anything, you tell me, okay? I don't care if you think it's silly, or- or you think you can do it yourself, you tell FRIDAY and I'll be here."

"But-"

"Nope. I'm here to help you, kid. You gotta let me do that." 

He hears a small huff that could be a laugh, then, "Thanks, dad." The door slides shut.

 

 _Dad_? 

 

Doesn't sound half bad. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, there's no handbook for taking care of children, and no matter how much of a genius you might be, it's still quite the goddamn challenge
> 
> Jesus, now he knows how Pepper felt, taking care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, she updates.
> 
> I've decided to get all my smaller fics out the way before I update my 5 + 1, and publish the giant WIP I've got ;)

Tony makes sure to wake up early the next morning, dragging himself out of bed at an hour unholy enough for him to meet the sun as it rises. He _hates_ being up so early, but he hasn’t been able to sleep properly the entire night, so it’s not like he’s losing sleep or anything. He stumbles as he pulls on his socks and trousers. FRIDAY hasn’t told him if anything has changed in Peter’s room, which means the kid slept through the rest of the night, but he still wants to check up on him. Hearing Peter’s nightmare-induced cries had… not left him unaffected. Not that that he’ll ever tell anyone that. The sound had just pulled at some old, unused instinct buried deep in his chest, and well… he’s a mechanic. He fixes things. That noise sounded broken, and he wants to fix it. But there’s also the fact that he has absolutely no clue how to deal with a sick teenager, so he isn’t going to risk anything by leaving Peter to it. He hops around as he pulls strewn clothes off the floor and onto himself, cursing his lack of balance. He probably needs to eat and drink something. And sleep more. Tony lightly kisses Pepper’s forehead after he’s dressed and pulls the comforter up to her neck to keep her warm. She has a long day ahead of her, like most days; but if Tony can make that just a fraction of a bit easier for her, then he will. That’s the nice thing to do, even if some people — cough, cough, _Rogers_ — think he’s incapable of ‘nice’. The room is still silent and FRIDAY is doing an amazing job of running everything smoothly, so Tony slinks out into the hallways and lets the door silently close.

 

He spares a brief thought, focused and clear, towards Peter, and how he is. Has he slept well? Has he slept at all? How often do kids need to eat, and sick ones at that? Tony knows fluids and water are necessary, but… what else? Will painkillers even work on Peter, given his metabolism? Tony pauses; runs a hand through his hair. Too many questions, not enough answers. He’s a _mechanic_ , dammit, and he fixes things. He can’t _fix_ if he doesn’t understand. There should be some kind of manual for taking care of kids. Probably called _parenting for newbies_ or something-

 

_Mentoring_. Mentoring for newbies. He’s just Peter’s guardian for the weekend, not- not a _parent_. Still though, he _has_ to take care of the kid and nurse him back to his full, spidery health as soon as possible, because that’s what people do for other people. It totally, 100% does _not_ have anything to do with that really weird, really new sensation that flared up in his chest every time something _particularly_ memorable happened yesterday.

 

_“I- I can’t sleep.”_

 

_“I didn’t want to worry you.”_

 

_“I don’t feel so good.”_

 

_“I just wanna go back to sleep. Please.”_

 

_“It hurts.”_

 

_“Thanks, dad.”_

 Maybe it’s just the small, unsure tone that Peter used that’s affecting him so much. After all, Tony’s life has been in business and science and engineering and maths since he could walk. Full of certainties and confidence, false impressions and facades. Cold logic and no room for slips ups or vulnerability. Stark men are made of iron. Iron is meant to be strong and unflappable. _Tony_ is meant to be strong and unflappable. To see someone, _anyone_ , being so upfront and honest, open and _raw_ , it had been… it had been unsettling, really. Hearing voices that are full of genuine emotion and not honeyed tones and sickly sweet words, hearing words that are small and vulnerable and _uncertain_ ; volatile and constantly changing in meaning by tones alone… it’s so much more complicated than just maths.

 

So yeah, maybe that feeling- maybe he is getting protective over Peter. How can’t he?

 

Tony never really had a proper male role model growing up. Hell, if it hadn’t been for Jarvis, he wouldn’t have had one at all. Tony knows what’s it’s like to just be a child — one with far too much pressure and responsibility on their shoulders with no-one to turn to. If he can help Peter, if he can just be there and _support_ him when the kid has to take a break-

 

He will. No child should ever have to suffer the loneliness he did as a kid. Peter doesn’t have to tackle every problem he faces alone — Tony hopes, _god_ he _hopes_ that Peter will just let him help.

 

Peter’s a damn good kid. Tony won’t let him suffer if it’s preventable. He pauses slightly in his walk to stretch, a few vertebrae popping as he does. Tony groans.

 

Autopilot takes over as Tony strolls through the halls, mumbling the occasional ‘good morning’ to the people he passes by. Really, he isn’t used to functioning so early without at least _one_ mug of coffee, and it’s a little weird to be so groggy. Then again, normally he outright doesn’t sleep and has an unsafe amount of coffee, so… this natural grogginess is probably better than the caffeine crash. Tony yawns, and he shakes his head. That train of thought isn’t really getting him anywhere so far. So, instead of meandering on uselessly, Tony starts to formulate a plan in his head.

 

_1: Coffee. Check on the kid, bring painkillers?_  

_2: Coffee, eat something. Try to make food for Peter. Metabolism needs food to heal. Same drink from last time?_

_3: Check FRIDAY if he’s still sleeping. Bring movies and blankets. Coffee._

_4: Google how to care for a sick child?_

 

He’s stopped walking. Man, he really _does_ get lost in thought when he’s not quite awake yet. With a tired huff, Tony keeps on toward the common room, and more specifically, the kitchen. Pepper probably would have slapped him upside the head if she saw him going for the coffee before going to the cupboard in an attempt to cook something edible. He _still_ remembers the cooking classes and books she keeps playfully ‘gifting’ him, but they have improved his ability to not char food off the face of the planet, so… yeah. Not completely useless.

 

That’s a lie. While his coffee brews, Tony aimlessly stares into the cupboard, mind blank. Lot of help those classes are when he’s so tired he can barely think coherently.

 

And then, staring pathetically at the ingredients, he remembers _his_ last experience with the flu. Tony hadn’t wanted to eat in days. Sure, he could stomach water at most, but food? No. Nada. What he _really_ needs to do is keep Peter hydrated, above all. Flu comes with fevers, and fevers lead to sweating. The poor kid can’t fight off any pathogens if he doesn’t have the fluids in his body to _not_ go into hypovolemic shock. If Peter wants food when he wakes up, _then_ Tony can panic about his lack of culinary skills, and _damn_ , what do sick kids eat?

 

Tony buries his head in his hands; a quiet groan is still trapped in his throat.

 

_Note to self: sleep more before hosting a sick spider child._

 

And then Tony winces. Because that’s what Peter is. A sick child. Sure, Tony has shown before that he’s at least semi-functional with children around — Harley is a prime example of that. It wasn’t the best attempt at being a role model, sure, but between balancing the massive looming terrorist threat and his PTSD, he’s pretty sure he did okay. He still talks to Harley every now and then, too.

 

But. The main difference between this situation and Harley is that Peter is _sick_. And a superhero. Harley was neither of those. Tony sighs. Well, if he can somehow, miraculously manage to not screw this up, it at least helps Peter back onto his feet. Damn kid needs to take a sick day every now and then.

 

Tony is aware how hypocritical that thought is.

 

So what else can he do for the kid? Food is out the window, at least until Peter wakes up-

 

Ah.

 

“FRIDAY?” Tony looks up from his now-empty mug of coffee, gaze pointed at the ceiling. Even though FRI lacks a physical form, there’s something vaguely reassuring about looking to where he imagines the person would be. It feels more real, more personal.

_‘Boss?’_

“Could you do me a favour?” If the AI could, Tony imagines that FRIDAY would be smirking right now.

_‘Isn’t that what you designed me to do?’_

“I designed you to be as snarky as you just were. I always did look forward to the day my favourite creation could sass me back.”

 

A small voice at the back of his head pipes up — when he dreamt of something he made and cultivated growing as a person, he’s not quite sure he meant his AIs. It’s still true, but…

He tries to not remember Howard calling him 'his greatest creation'. _Creation_. Not a person, not a son, a _creation_. An object. Something to brag about. 

 

_‘I do try,_ _boss_.’ Tony snaps out of his funk and blinks twice.

“Ah, that you do. You’re doing great, sweetheart.”

_‘Thanks. Ms. Potts wants you to know she’s very proud of how you’re handling this situation.’_ Tony looks up, and doesn’t bother to fight down the genuine smile that raises to his face. There’s nobody else there to see it, so for this once, Tony allows himself to _feel_. God, he loves Pepper.

“Aw. Tell her I love her?”

_‘No problem — though that might sound bizarre coming from me. But might I add, I’m proud of you as well. Your emotional health is improving vastly.’_ Tony blinks at FRIDAY’s tone. That’s… new. FRIDAY has never complimented him before. She’s never complimented him before because she’s basically a baby, _his_ baby, and she’s still learning, and Tony programmed her to be able to snark back and forth with him. Compliments weren’t exactly embedded in that code, so that means she’s been learning from someone with a much more compassionate side.

 

Hah.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Karen recently, huh?”

_‘She is connected to the compound’s mainframe, boss. We talk when neither of us are required.’_ A wave of giddiness comes over Tony abruptly. His AIs have been _learning_ from each other.

“I feel like I should be nervous about that. You’re not conspiring, are you?”

_‘No. But through our communication, we have learned a few things.’_ FRIDAY’s voice turns slightly amused, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Like?”

_‘Since meeting Mr. Parker, you tend to drink less alcohol.’_ Tony thinks about it carefully. Booze _has_ seemed less appealing recently, but he swore it was just because losing the other Avengers was a wake-up call. The time period fits. There’s also the slight chance that Peter might get caught up in a patrol where he needs some help, so that’s a motivator too. Especially after the disaster that was homecoming.

“Yeah… got more things to do now. Can’t call Ross if I’m hammered.”

_‘Karen has reported on numerous occasions that Mr. Parker adheres more closely to his curfew before lab days.’_

“Wait, ‘ _adheres more closely_ ’? Oh- that little-” Little shit must have persuaded Karen to help him out. Tony hides a grin behind his hand.

_‘You often turn in earlier before lab days, too.’_ That’s true. There isn’t any way he can find some other way to justify that, other than the fact that on some level, he just finds helping Peter out to be a _nice thing_. It just feels natural.

_‘We have noticed increased amounts of dopamine and oxytocin in both yours and Mr. Parker’s post-mission body scans at any given time.’_ Tony blinks. He never thought he’d say it, but-

“It’s too early for science. English, please?”

FRIDAY’s tone sounds slightly exasperated when she speaks.

_‘Helping one another is helping your emotional health.’_

 

Yeah. Yeah, that might be true. Maybe. It’s definitely true on his behalf — Tony just hopes that his presence is as helpful to Peter as Peter’s is to him.

“That’s- that’s pretty cool, I guess. But-! And back to it now- is Peter awake yet?”

_‘There has been no significant movement in the past seven hours.’_

 

Tony fiddles with the handle of his mug — seven hours of sleep. That’s about average for most people. Peter, being ill, probably needs more rest. But also, the kid needs to drink something.

“That’s a good thing, right? How often do sick superkids need to sleep?”

_‘A person about Peter’s age should be achieving eight hours sleep per night, minimum.’_ Tony nods slowly. Probably. He also catches the jab under FRIDAY’s accusatory tone at the ‘eight hours’.

“Hey. It’s not _my_ fault my brain is so trigger happy with the upsetting content.”

 

…yeah. Sometimes it’s New York, going through that wormhole. Other times it’s Obie tearing the arc reactor out, or Steve burying that shield into his chest. Or, they feature Howard Stark Horror Stories, the palladium poisoning, the nightmarish vision Wanda stuffed into his head, watching Pepper and Rhodey and Happy all suffer for just being _associated_ with him, and-

 

Afghanistan. New York. Tennessee. Sokovia. Lagos. Berlin.

 

So much suffering.

 

He doesn’t want to bring Peter into that. Damn kid’s already shown Tony that he’s dumb enough to drag himself into fights anyway.

 

_‘Maybe you should talk to someone about it.’_

“Yeah, maybe. But-! But but but but but-! Peter’s slept a pretty decent amount. That’s good. I’m gonna check up on him, get him to drink something.”

_‘That’s probably a good plan.’_

 

Tony doesn’t remember Howard ever really checking up on him when he got sick. Jarvis and Maria? Yes. Howard? Never.

 

At least Tony is _trying_ to break that dumbass cycle of asshole behaviour.

 

Howard would have never made him the drink Peter had last night, the drink Tony is making him again now. Tony takes a container out of the many bottles in the medicine drawer — drugs, made by Helen to work on the more enhanced metabolisms — and sets it down gently next to the still lightly steaming mug. By the time he gets to Peter’s room, it’ll be cool enough to drink. Hopefully, Peter will be able to stomach the painkillers as well.

 

That’s a lot of things Tony’s hoping for. So he grabs the drink and the painkillers, and he sets off in the direction of Peter’s room.

 

Now, Tony will be the first to admit that the internal layout of the compound is slightly confusing. The common room connects the Avengers’ levels of the building to the business areas of the place. A higher clearance is required to travel up to the common room and beyond, to where Peter’s room is among the others.

 

Which may be why the sudden lack of motion past the common area is both unsettling and upsetting. Not many Avengers fill these rooms anymore. It’s odd to have to walk here alone — his room with Pepper is distanced from the Avengers’, more towards the business side of the building.

 

It’s kind of poetic. Even the placement of Tony’s room is a terrible, awful reminder of how separate he’s always felt from the group. How distant he always felt.

 

Consultant.

 

Officially, Tony was never an Avenger. Never really part of that family. And oh, how he tried. How Tony tried to find a sense of belonging there. Now, he’s not so sure he’d like to be a part of the Avengers’ family. He’d rather have his friends. People who he can trust.

 

Tony just hopes he can help other people not feel that same emptiness he did.

 

He ignores the traitorous voice in his head that whispers about family. That quietly hopes he can make Peter feel involved, like he’s part of the family that forms Stark Industries. A bunch of like-minded people who all know and care for each other — what’s not to love? Sometimes, it hardly even feels like Tony is talking to employees but friends doing their jobs brilliantly. Tony mentally steps back, and breathes in. He’d like to make Peter feel like part of the family.

 

God knows the kid deserves it.

 

Tony steps in front of the door he knows is Peter’s, and he raps his knuckles lightly against the door. He does feel a little guilty for waking the kid up, but he has to keep in mind that the flu is a heartless bitch whose fevers rest for no-one. The kid needs to drink something, even if he doesn’t want to eat.

 

There isn’t a response at first, so he knocks at the door again, hardly loud enough to hear from up close, but Tony is being careful not to accidentally send Peter into sensory overload. If his senses are even a fraction of how sensitive they were last night, it’s probably best if he just keeps as quiet as possible. The last thing he wants is for Peter to wind up suffering more. He’s meant to be on a _break_ , dammit, and he’s already exhausted. So Tony’s epic plan for the day? Getting Peter up, fed, and letting him rest. If he’s even awake, that is. There _still_ isn’t a response to his earlier knock, even after a few minutes, so he raps his knuckles across the door slightly harder this time. If Peter doesn’t respond this time, then he’ll go to the labs and go back to working on the Iron Spider. Or maybe make a little helper bot for Pepper. Tony rolls his shoulders slightly — who knows what he’ll do? He just has to find out if Peter is actually awake yet. The mug is still hot in his hands, growing slightly uncomfortable, but it’ll still be a while before it starts burning him. Thank you, engineering hands. Tony bumps the bottle of painkillers against his legs, the rattling echoing across the halls, and presses his ear up against the door to hear if there’s anything coming from the inside.

 

He hears a slight shuffling coming through the door, then-

“...hello?” The voice is tired and croaky, but definitely Peter’s. Tony sighs in relief, a small and involuntary smile on his face, and clears his throat again.

“It’s just me, kid. Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” He pushes the door open with his free hand. Maybe he woke the kid up, but at least the kid’s _conscious_. Hopefully lucid as well. At least the drink should help soothe Peter’s throat — it _sounds_ painful, even to distant ears. _Rattling_. Ouch.

 

The room is pitch black, asides from the thin slit of light pouring into the room, and Tony realised that the blackout protocol he installed into Peter’s room is active. He winces sympathetically, and stays still for the time being — he’s still not good at this whole _‘openly caring’_ thing. But the fact that the blackout protocol is activated means that the kid’s senses are on overdrive, so he makes a conscious effort to control each footstep, breath and sound from becoming too loud.

 

“Mis’er Stark? Wha’s happening?” The hoarseness of Peter’s voice forces a grimace onto Tony’s face. Jesus. It’s like the kid ate sandpaper. And then there’s the slight slurring over his t’s — must be pretty congested, then. Tony steps forward carefully, drink in his outstretched hand. He plasters fake confidence into his voice — he needs to be reassuring for Peter. The poor kid’s far from home, sick, and full of enhanced instincts.

“Nothing wrong. You’ve been asleep a while- thought you’d need a drink about now. Fever’s a bitch.” He hears a thick sniffle, and quiet rustling, presumably as Peter sits up.

“Oh- oh. Okay. Okay. Thanks.” Tony hands Peter the drink carefully, and watches closely for any signs of open discomfort on the kid’s face. With his metabolism, the stab wound might have miraculously healed overnight — although he doesn’t particularly think that’s happened.

 

“FRI, lights at 5%?” The room illuminates barely, but it’s enough for him to see more telling details on Peter’s condition. He’s stuck in a yawn, a hand limply raised to cover his mouth, and Tony’s pretty sure he can see another drool trail. The bags are still present under his eyes, alarmingly so, but he doesn’t look nearly as pale as he did the night before, so that has to be an improvement.

 

Decidedly, Tony isn’t fond of the _black ringed eyes, walking dead exhausted_ look on anyone, but for some reason, his chest tugs in a way that is unfamiliar, but not quite unwelcome, at the sight of the tired expression on Peter’s face. It’s hypocritical, he knows — after all, Tony has mastered the ability to walk around while two seconds away from dropping dead. But Peter…? No. Tony isn’t gonna let Peter stress himself too hard today.

 

And then there’s that blood patch on the kid’s shirt. In hindsight, Tony should have helped Peter change into something cleaner, but he hadn’t, so… yeah. It doesn’t exactly help that a solid half of all of his instincts are all speaking up at once, into some unholy chorus of protective urges.

 

(Definitely not because, for the first time, he’s noticed that Peter’s natural hair just happens to be almost ridiculously curly, and it’s taking a whole lot of effort to not run his hands through it.)

 

“What time is it?” Tony absently places the bottle of painkillers onto the bedside table, and thinks about the question. If it were anyone else, he would have snapped off a retort about standard time measurements being mere constructs to help humans comprehend the meaningless changing events around them, but one, it’s too early to be that nihilistic, and two, this is Peter. It’s fun to tease the kid, not to mess with him like he would Rogers.

Tony winces and quashes the memory down. “It’s early-ish. About nine in the morning.”

To his surprise (and perhaps dismay), Peter doesn’t really respond with much more than a confused blink and a yawn. “Cool.”

 

The conversation kind of dies from there onwards, for at least a few minutes. It’s awkward. Tony just pretends to do something else while Peter knocks back a painkiller, wincing slightly at the probably-gross taste, and rubs at his eyes roughly.

 

The blood on Peter’s shirt steals his attention again, and the aggrieved nausea in his throat is enough to knock himself back into reality.

“Yeah, yeah… how’s your…?” He gestures vaguely at the region where the injury is. He doesn’t really want to remember finding the injury, the shock and pain and sadness that flowed through him when he connected the wound to Peter’s uncharacteristic quietness and wide eyes, and-

“It… it’s fine.” Tony shakes his head briefly. Definitely _not_ fine. Nope.

“ _Peter_.”

 

Peter looks up at him, eyes wide and trusting, and for a second it’s all he can do to not hug the kid. Seriously. It’s like every single cell in his chest has decided all at once, _fuck_ _it_ , emotions. Tony wants to help the kid, take care of him, hug him and cry all at once.

 

Christ, emotions are a fucking mess.

 

“It- it aches a little?” That’s a little better. But not quite the answer he’s looking for.

“Try again.”

“It hurts a bit. I should-” A jaw popping yawn escapes the kid, and guessing from the slight widening of Peter’s eyes, he didn’t expect it either. Tony almost laughs. “I should clean that.”

 

The urge to laugh dies.

“Nope, I’m cleaning that.” To prove his point, Tony drops into a slight crouch and fishes the First Aid kit out from underneath the bed, dangling it in front of Peter’s face.

“Mr. Stark!” The slightly embarrassed tone of voice would have been slightly amusing any other time, but then it hits him — Peter is probably used to treating his own wounds, no matter how severe.

 

And that is fucking _heartbreaking_. Jesus, he must have been what, fourteen, the first time he treated a major injury by himself. That’s a year of field experience.

 

Yeah, he’s gonna have to fix that.

 

(Isn’t that what mechanics do?)

 

“It’s _Tony_ , kid, _Tony_.”

“Mr. Tony, you don’t- nope. I can do it.”

He snorts loudly, hand flying up to his face. “Oh my god, you just called me _Mr. Tony_ , for fuck’s- I’m doing it.”

“Mister Stark, listen-” He catches the slight hitch in Peter’s breath at the end of the sentence, and is quick to start rubbing circles between the kid’s shoulder blades as hacks violently into his hand. Jesus. He doesn’t miss having the flu.

“No.”

 

There’s no response this time, just rattling wheezes as Peter struggles to regain his breath. Tony doesn’t stop rubbing circles.

“Okay.”

Tony gives a small half-smile. “Thanks, Pete. Can I…?”

He doesn’t miss the slight tremble in Peter’s hand as he lifts up the corner of his sleep shirt, revealing the white gauze. That’s gotta ache a little more than the kid’s letting on.

 

(He doesn’t miss the abundance of other small scars littering the area. Fuck.)

 

Once the gauze it off, the injury — still gross — looks no worse for wear than it was yesterday. Should probably (definitely) still clean it out anyway.

“Right, it looks okay. FRIDAY hasn’t said anything, there’s no inflammation or pus, so… that’s as clean a bill as you’re getting.”

“How are you gonna redress it? There’s no… we’re not in the medbay.”

“As you might already be able to tell, there’s a First Aid kit in every room in this compound, just in case some idiot decides they can skip medical. I’d rather not lose anyone else.” With that painful exposition over with, Tony dabs gently around the wound with antiseptic wipes, and seals another gauze pad onto it.

“O-oh, okay. Awesome.”

“Yeah. How’s that feel? Not painful, or pinching or anything? And you should probably put on a clean shirt or something.”

“No, it’s- it’s good. Thanks, Mr. Stark.” This time when Peter yawns, Tony actually does give the kid's hair a slight ruffle. It's soft; slightly tousled from sleep, but almost ridiculously thick. Peter seems to relax into the touch.

“No prob, kid. Do you want to go back to sleep? You can if you need to, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna, like, sweat yourself into hypovolemic shock or something.”

“Mph. I can do it. I don’t wanna go to sleep.” He can't help it — Tony looks down, eyes closed, and smiles, because for all the time Peter spends trying to grow up early, he still retains the mannerisms of a kid. It's nice to see.

“Okay. But no hard working today. You’re sitting on a couch and taking it easy, and we’re watching movies.” A memory flashes through his head, of the airport fight in Berlin; of Peter swinging around and yelling about Star Wars. Hopefully, Tony can use that love of movies to his advantage and get the damn kid to rest.

“You don’t have to do that-”

“You’re right. I don’t have to. I want to.”

“But-”

“Peter. It’s not a _burden_ for me to look after you. It’s fine.” There’s no response from Peter — the radio silence doesn’t really count as one.

“I enjoy taking care of you, kid. It’s part of my job as your mentor. It’ll be fun, anyway. Outside of the internship and superheroing, I don’t spend any time with you.” Peter yawns and rubs at his eyes while he’s talking. Tony’s not offended or anything, maybe just pleased by how vulnerable and normal Peter allows himself to be around him.

“M’kay, dad.” Tony doesn’t take the dad comment too far to heart — he knows it’s because Peter is so, so tired. As if to prove his point, he yawns again.

 

He doesn’t notice the slight flush that crawls onto Peter’s face.

"Okay. Well, I'm gonna wait out here, and you- you get changed into something clean."

"'kay." Tony offers a small wave to Peter (yawning again) before he steps out into the hallway again, and slumps against the wall.

 

He definitely does not think about how that's twice Peter has accidentally called him 'dad' now, and he resolutely ignores the dread-mixed-joy in his chest. No. He can't be- Howard- Tony can't let himself fall into a position like that. As much as he wants to let Peter in close, he can't. He can't let the kid down like that. He-

"Mister Stark?" Peter's quiet, maybe even _hesitant_ , voice snaps him out of whatever funk he was just headed into. Ah. Maybe that dilemma was showing on his face then. Tony claps his hands together abruptly, stealing a slight twitch from Peter's skinny frame. 

"Right, c'mon. Let's go." He notices that as they start walking, Peter never strays from just slightly behind him. Tony winces. He's probably walking too fast, so he makes a conscious effort to slow down, and is rewarded by a lightly huffing Peter catching up to him. Good.

God, Pepper, Happy and Rhodey would be having a field day if they were here with a camera. Tony Stark, billionaire playboy, purposefully slowing down his pace to help a sick child in-

In-

_Fuzzy Iron Man socks_.

 

Wow. 

 

Tony doesn't bother hiding his snort at the sight of the very familiar hot-rod red and gold colour scheme of the socks, and tries even less when he breaks into peals of laughter. To his credit, Peter doesn't get embarrassed like Tony was worried he would, but instead stands a little straighter and meets his gaze head on.

"It was good value for money, Mr. Stark." And his indignant tone makes Tony laugh even harder. He hasn't laughed like this for a while. It's... it's kinda relieving. 

"I'm sure it was, kid." He can't help the (even louder) snort that escapes him when Peter makes some kind of squawk (in the kid's defence, Tony did ruffle his hair without even telling him, so...) and playfully swats at his hand.

"It was-!" And then the kid starts coughing-

And doesn't stop.

"Jesus, hey-! Okay, you've one-upped me, now like... you good?" Maybe kinda awkwardly, Tony rubs circles between Peter's shoulder blades again, wincing sympathetically at the loud, rattling coughs escaping the kid. Yeah, he definitely doesn't miss the flu. Poor kid. When Peter taps his arm slightly, he moves to the side.

"You good now?"

"No." And guessing from the hoarseness of his voice and the unshed tears in his eyes, Peter is definitely _not_ good. It's a good thing they're basically at the common room now, and the blankets are still out, because if it weren't for Peter nearly chucking himself into the small fortress, Tony definitely would have wound up swaddling the kid in them anyways. Absently, Tony drags the last two blankets out of the cabinet and tucks one over Peter's fort before sitting down in his own blanket fort right next door to the kid.

 

(He doesn't know much about taking care of small children, but he's pretty sure he should stick close in case anything happens.)

 

When Tony dims the light and switches the TV on, resuming yesterday's episode of _The Walking Dead_ , it feels natural. He can feel when Peter occasionally shifts, leaning slightly further into him, and he shifts his arm over the kid accordingly. It's nice. Calm. Abruptly, Tony realises that maybe this is what he was meant to be feeling when he was 'part' of the Avengers family. The sense of calm and the lack of an urge to move around or do something... it's kind of a new sensation. Weird. And when Peter nestles further into his side, apparently seeking warmth, Tony just... allows it. Maybe even encourages it.

Definitely encourages it. Tony remembers how Peter had nearly melted into a lax puddle early on — only after Tony had carded his fingers through the kid's hair. Slowly, he raises his arm, and gently rests it on Peter's head. When the kid flinches, he nearly draws back, but instead just gnaws on his lip contemplatively.

"Do you mind...?"

A thick sniffle. "That's fine, Mr. Stark."

Tony wonders if the rhythmic movements are as relaxing to Peter as they are to him. His answer arrives in the form of more shuffling, and the eventual even huffs of breath that come with being (nearly) asleep. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, smiling slightly, before messing with Peter's hair again. What can he say? It's surprisingly calming.

He isn't really paying much attention to what happens on the show now, but the kid's asleep, so...

Looking up, he whispers, "FRIDAY?"

_'Boss?'_ Once again, Tony smiles — FRIDAY is using hushed tones too. If that's not proof that she's making leaps and bounds, then what is? It might just be because Tony has improved in his understanding of tech since JARVIS, but FRIDAY is learning a lot faster, a lot more comprehensively. He estimates that maybe in about a year, she'll have caught up completely; maybe even surpassed JARVIS. It's a little different with Vision, because he's got an actual body and can go wherever whenever, but... FRIDAY is doing amazing.

"Turn the volume down?"

_'No problem.'_ As if on cue, the sound on the TV goes right down. Peter seems to relax a little bit, and Tony is forced to realise that it was probably too loud the whole time. He winces.

"Sorry, Pete."

There's a quiet hum after he speaks, half garbled from the few thousand blankets engulfing the kid, but Tony's pretty sure it translates to: "...it's fine."

 

And it goes silent again, for maybe half an hour. Tony just flickers through the channels — news, nature documentaries, something interesting about dozens of species of spiders (he records it for Peter), some talk show on the Accords, Peter shifting around in the corner-

 

Wait.

 

Wearily, Tony watches out of the corner of his eye and Peter shifts around slowly. He looks pretty uncomfortable, and Tony can’t find any reason for the kid not to be. He’s been stabbed, got stitches and the flu all within a few hours time — that’d be enough to throw anyone for a loop. But still, the shaky limbs and the sudden paleness don't quite match up to how Peter had chucked himself under the blankets- an hour ago? A few hours ago? Jesus, time is so weird... Tony blinks; forces himself to attention. Peter’s still shuffling around, peeling the comforter off himself, and Tony notices the thin sheen of sweat plastering rogue curls to the kid’s forehead.

 

Wait…

 

Peter goes slightly pale; posture straightening slightly.

“Mr. Stark?” There’s a somewhat desperate look in Peter’s gaze as he locks eyes with Tony — Tony is quick to note the tightening-yet-still-shaky grip on the arm of the sofa, the way he sucks in each breath like it's a test, and-

 

He throws himself off the couch and lunges forwards, grabbing the small wicker bin and quickly handing it to Peter.

 

Retches follow soon after. It’s heartbreaking to watch Peter shudder, sweat making him seem almost ghostly, and Tony can’t help but gently rub soothing circles into the gap between the kid’s shoulder blades. It doesn't seem to help much.

"You're alright. You're alright..." The words come naturally, even if they feel awkward in his mouth. He's just thankful there was a bin liner in the basket — that would have been a lot harder to deal with otherwise. It's only after Peter slumps, obviously exhausted, that Tony dares to move the bin away. He resolves to move it further away and grab the bucket from under the sink- that is, after he makes sure the kid isn't going to keel over after he moves away.

 

Tony is wholly unprepared for the sucker punch that is sympathy, straight into his heart. If he thought seeing Peter all small had made his heart ache before, this...? This is _horrible_. The kid curls into a ball within a few seconds of being away from the bin, and whimpers miserably, even as Tony tries to bring some kind of comfort through the hair ruffling. It doesn't seem to help — but it does help  _Tony_ a little. He can feel the heat radiating off the kid, and winces accordingly. Not any better, then. Worse, presumably. 

"You okay?" It's a dumb question, he knows. But he's concerned, dammit, and he's also one hundred percent terrible at being concerned. He doesn't get a response, and he pretends to be more calm about that fact than he actually is.

"I'm gonna move the bin and get the bucket, okay?" Nothing. Gently, Tony extracts himself from the heaping blanket fort and picks up the bin (wincing slightly at the putrid smell as it is disturbed) and strides over to the kitchen, swiftly disposing of the tied up bag and kicking the (thankfully, clean) wicker bin into the corner. He'll bleach it or whatever later. He would do everything properly and efficiently now, but his chest is demanding he goes back to Peter and keeps the kid warm, so...

He snags the bucket kept under the sink and heads back to the couch. He’s never been one to not follow his gut, and his gut is telling him to protect his goddamn kid.

“Hey, shuffle up, buddy.” Tony isn’t bothered or anything when Peter doesn’t really move more than a few centimetres — he just sits as comfortably as possible within the given space. After all, Peter’s comfort is his priority.

 

The kid’s gone and made him all soft on the inside. The other Avengers wouldn’t believe it.

 

He frowns a little when he registers just how hard Peter is trembling still — he shouldn’t be _that_ cold. So he spends a few minutes thinking, planning, trying, over analysing, until-

Tony untucks his blankets, and casts about half of them over him _and_ Peter. He wouldn’t just leave anyone to suffer like that, but especially not Peter. Damn kid... it’s impressive how he just _slipped_  through decades of emotional walls like it was child’s play. So yeah, maybe... 

Maybe the kid is more to him than an intern. Something familial.

_Son_?

No. Tony can’t bring the fun Stark-as-a-parent experience he had on Peter, on anyone.

“Mis’er Stark?”

“Peter. You alright?” He gets a non-committal hum in response as Peter nestles further into his side, apparently searching for comfort, and while a small part of Tony wants to re-establish some distance before he ends up getting the kid hurt, the much larger part of him just wants to keep Peter close and safe. He doesn't really mind — if it weren't for the fact that Peter is ill, he'd almost like to do _this_  — be semi-familial — again. It's relaxing.

"Mm."

"Yeah, that's as good as you're gonna be, huh... Kid, take a nap. I’ll stay here. You need to rest.” He can't do much to make Peter comfortable right now. He knows. For once, it's knowledge that Tony _isn't_ fond of. But... Tony shifts himself backwards a little, awkwardly tugging a pillow out from behind himself and resting it against his thigh (can't let the kid get a crick in his neck. That'd be the icing on the cake for a bad weekend). Peter seems to follow the cue, because he crashes out like a light within seconds.

 

It's cute. Seriously.

God, he really _has_ gone soft.

 

At some point, his fingers have started messing with Peter's hair again, gently moving in patterns that resemble the headache massages he's just a little too familiar with, and he can't bring himself to stop. If you'd told Tony only a few months ago that he would have wound up with the overwhelming urge to protect Peter, then... He probably would have awkwardly backed away, or found an excuse not to hear it. He's still uncomfortable now, unfamiliar, treading deeply in new territory, but... he looks at the lightly snoring kid resting against his leg, swaddled by blankets, and he smiles slightly.

That's worth it.

_He's_ worth it. 

The ex-Avengers can, frankly, suck it, because Tony is pretty sure that this is what a family is meant to be. At least when he argues with Peter, and Peter argues with him, they don't destroy entire airports. That time with the ferry doesn't count. But the way he wants to protect Peter is... it's more unconditional than the care he's ever really felt for anyone else. Happy, Rhodey, Pepper and Peter. That's his family. Not exactly a blood family, but... blood families can suck. These guys are better.

He has to stifle a surprised noise when he feels Peter adjusting; tucking an arm over Tony's shin and huffing in a way that he's pretty sure (he hopes) is content. Normally he'd hate the physical contact (what good has ever come from that? A hand pulling out his arc reactor, hands around his throat, a shield slamming down onto his chest...), but he's surprisingly okay with it this time. He might even like it-

Abruptly, he yawns, and is forced to remember that bad sleep and an early morning generally leave a guy exhausted. Yikes. He stretches to where the remote is and turns the TV off. Good. Now it's quiet. Tony yawns; stretches briefly, and shuffles into a more comfortable position.

 

For the first time in a long while, his dreams are empty.

 

* * *

 

 

He's hungry.

That's the first thing Tony realises when he comes back to. He's hungry, and there's a pleasant-verging-on-uncomfortable heat pressed into his side. He blearily opens his eyes, blinks twice, and rubs at his face. It must have been a pretty light sleep, maybe a few hours, but he definitely needed it. Tony hadn't even realised how sleep-heavy his limbs had been. Kinda makes it a little worse when he remembers just how much Peter had struggled to match his pace yesterday. Speaking of the kid...

He shifts a little, maybe yawns if the disruption of even breathing is anything to go by, but doesn't wake up. That's good. The kid needs the rest. So Tony stays still; he turns the TV back on. It's not the most interesting thing in the world, but it's better than nothing. Besides, tiredness is still a heavy weight in his limbs and he's not quite sure he's 100% awake just yet, so Tony dozes for a while. Briefly, he wonders how Pepper's day has been. And what time it is.

His stomach growls so loudly he nearly jumps. Tony grumbles to himself briefly, but tries to stay still and ignore the shakiness of his arms.

It doesn't work. The need to eat something wins out over his urge to stay still for Peter — he really needs to eat something, or Pepper would kill him. He stands slowly in an attempt to not disturb Peter, gently cradling the kid's head so it doesn't smack into the now-empty space. Tony smooths the blankets back over while he's at it, because he's really not gonna let Peter get cold. It's already weird enough seeing the usually bright and energetic boy so subdued, but seeing him uncomfortable is just... painful for Tony.

Actually...

It’s been at least eight hours now, most likely longer, since Peter last ate anything. And looking at his face, Peter looks more uncomfortable than before as well. He needs to eat as well, then. Definitely, actually, because of Peter’s super-metabolism. He’s no biologist, but he’s pretty sure that a higher output needs a higher input. Tony walks to the kitchen, stretching leisurely along the way, and sits on the island.

“Peter? Buddy, it’s time to wake up.”

Tony watches, slightly concerned, as Peter rolls over slightly and shoves a few blankets off himself. There’s a red flush rising up on his cheeks again, he notes with a frown. That’s not good.

“Peter. Kid, open your eyes for me, at least.” He gives it another few minutes, but Peter is sleeping like a brick. With an exasperated sigh, Tony hops down from the counter and strides over to Peter; softly nudges his shoulder. He needs the kid to wake up, but he doesn’t want to send him into a sensory overload. That just- that- Tony can’t make it any worse for Peter. The guilt would eat him alive.

"Kid?" He says quietly, a little more concern than necessary slipping into his voice. Peter hums questioningly in response, eyes still closed.

“I’m making something to eat. You want anything?”

“Mmfmsp?” Tony can’t help it — he snorts. Peter’s blinking a little more now, alertness slowly creeping back into too-round eyes, and the unintelligible mess of sound is more amusing for it.

“C’mon, Pete. I don’t speak sofa.”

“... You got ‘ny soup?”

“I can get you a drink first, that good? Your voice sounds painful, even from over here.”

“Water.” Tony nods to himself. Better than nothing. He fills a glass and rests it on the side — he’ll give it to Peter in a sec.

“And I can make chicken noodle — or I should be able to. I can’t vouch for the taste, but it should at least be edible. Sound good?” Peter looks up at him, blinks, and nods slightly before burying his face back into the couch.

“Mmgf.” He ruffles Peter’s hair gently.

“Yeah, I’ll make you that. You gotta eat something, anyways.”

It’s on autopilot that he looks into the cupboards, snagging the ingredients he definitely knows he needs for a quick meal. Tony knows he isn’t _too_ bad at cooking — meaning he hasn’t accidentally poisoned anyone yet — but he’s still a little nervous, which is weird in itself. He’s not used to the sensation.

“Give it about fifteen minutes and it’ll be ready, kid.”

A hum, muffled by blankets. Tony’s chest aches for Peter, for the fact that he can’t help him anymore or even be sick _instead_ of the kid. 

Fifteen minutes dwindle to ten, then to five, and by the time the soup is ready, Peter is blearily sat upright. He’s not yawning so much though. Tony nods slightly, satisfied. That’s better than it was.

Of course, after bringing the soup and the nearly-forgotten glass of water to Peter, the water is the first to go. Right. Fever’s still knocking about then.

Tony watches as Peter slowly eats the soup, mostly for any reaction like disgust or the sudden reappearance of nausea in case they need the bucket. Nothing happens though. If anything, Peter relaxes a little. He smiles encouragingly when the kid looks up at him, perplexed. He doesn’t even have to try to get Peter to eat anymore — the entire bowl is finished surprisingly quickly.

“You done?” At Peter’s tired nod, he stands and takes the bowl to the kitchen. And in the few seconds he’s been gone, Peter has slumped forward into his space. Tony gives a half-smile. Kid’s gotta be exhausted.

Despite his sadness, his heart _does_ warm at how Peter’s face has sorta _smooshed_ into the pillows of the sofa. It’s cute. The kid’s fingers are curling into the space where Tony was, almost as if they’re grasping, and-

He gently lifts Peter up into a sitting position, slowly, as to not disturb what is probably a still-sensitive stomach. He’s no abandoner. 

It’s a good thing nobody else is there to see the lengths he’s going to to keep Peter comfortable — they’d ask if he’d been replaced or something. But he, to his own surprise, fluffs Peter’s pillow and subtly tucks rogue blanket edges back in, just to make him just that little bit more comfortable. After all, Peter came up to the compound for a fun (now thoroughly ruined by some opportunistic asshole pathogen) weekend, and it definitely hasn’t been fun so far.

“You should feel a little better soon, now your metabolism has stuff to work with. But if you want to go back to sleep, you can go back to sleep no problem.”

“Mmmph. ‘kay, m’takin’ nap.”

“Get some rest, kid. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“...night, dad.”

Tony’s expression softens. “G’night, kid.”

And he plants a small kiss onto the top of Peter’s curls.

His cheeks burn, and Tony knows they’re an unbecoming shade of red right now. Shit, shit, _shit_ -

He flounders. What does he do, what can he do? Did Peter even recognise that he did _that_? Is the kid even awake right now? 

Damnit, his heart can’t take this kind of stress, why did he slip _up_ like that-?!

“...love you...”

 

_Tony_ _Stark.e_ _xe_ has stopped working. 

 

His blood rushes in his ears. He heard that. Did he hear that? Maybe he actually _has_ had a heart attack.

He looks down. Peter is leaning into his palm as he gently massages the kid’s scalp, and hugging his leg yet again. Maybe it’s a little too quick for Tony to outwardly return the sentiment in words, even if he wholly agrees and does in fact love the kid also.

“Ditto, Pete.”

Tony’s pretty sure that will do for now.

 

* * *

 

At some point, he gets a message from Pepper, and there’s a photo linked to it.

It’s Peter napping on him while he dozes, one of Tony’s arms slung over the kid’s frame while Peter hugs his leg.

 

He has FRIDAY save the file immediately.

_New folder created. Folder: ‘Family’._

_File saved to ‘Family’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of that!! So much fluffy cuteness, my god,,
> 
> If you can't already tell, I'm nowhere near as experienced with fluff as I am with angst. I hope this chapter is okay...
> 
> Love y'all! :) <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have a fic idea you want entertained (or maybe written), contact me on my Tumblr at spiderboyneedsahug!


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